


Cool for the Summer

by firebreathing_bitchqueen



Series: Midnight at the Mandragora (and other stories) [2]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27598097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebreathing_bitchqueen/pseuds/firebreathing_bitchqueen
Summary: After this afternoon, Holland may reconsider how quickly she wants to repair her air conditioner.
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: Midnight at the Mandragora (and other stories) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002582
Comments: 13
Kudos: 32





	Cool for the Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Someone in the Wayhaven Writers Discord said Nate's into edging and temperature play and it's been living rent-free in my mind ever since, so here y'all go. (Not that I ever need an excuse for debauchery feat. Nate x Holland).

“It’s so hot,” I mutter, swiping irritably at sweaty strands of hair falling in my face. Why can’t my hair just stay _back_? God. Why did I think this was a good idea?

“Well, it _is_ summer,” my companion reminds me, no hint of irritation in his voice.

“Only technically!” I protest. “August is practically fall. It shouldn’t be this bloody hot,” I grouse. “Seriously, I don’t remember the last time it was this warm _and_ sunny _and_ humid.”

“Might that not have been last summer?” He grins at me, almost irritatingly un-mussed and unflappable, even in the suffocating heat blanketing my apartment.

“Are you always this funny?” I arch a brow imperiously, although the effect is somewhat lessened by the quiver of responding grin I can’t quite contain.

His smile widens. “Part of my considerable charm.” He leans over to tuck a limp strand of hair back behind my ear where it’s fallen — once again — over my brow. “You sure you don’t want to just call a technician?”

I know at this point I’m probably just leaning into sunk-cost fallacy. Even so, I’m sorely tempted to square my shoulders and push onward. I’m certain if I insist I’ve got this handled, Nate will go with it; he’ll trust my judgment despite how obvious it certainly is at this point that I’m out of my depth in this particular venture. But a twinge of guilt pings in my stomach. I’ve already wasted almost an hour of our time together. I know, even if I were on the brink of a breakthrough in understanding the damnable air conditioner, it is unlikely to be a quick fix.

If it were, I probably would have been able to fix it by now, I think with another fizz of irritation.

I let out a breath, look up at him from the floor, where I’m kneeling in front of the open window, the air conditioning unit pulled onto the floor in front of me. Nate sits next to me, back against the wall and long legs drawn up, forearms resting on his bent knees.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling another twinge of guilt.

“For what?” Nate looks genuinely surprised.

“You came over so we could spend time together. Not to watch me lose a fight with the air conditioner.”

“You’re doing better than I would have,” he notes encouragingly. “And anyway, we are still spending time together.”

“This is not exactly what I had in mind,” I say wryly, then sigh again. “I’m just cranky because it’s hot and I get fixated when I’m frustrated by something. I’ll call Harry and get her to send someone, and then you and I will do something not related to the air conditioner,” I promise, rising onto my knees to fish my phone out of the back pocket of my shorts.

Harry — Harriet — is the property manager for my building. As usual, she’s quite responsive, even for a weekend, and answers on the second ring with her typical brusque cheer. “Hi, darlin’, how’re you?” Then, more quietly, as if she’s tilted the phone away from her mouth, “Not _you_ , darlin’, hush.”

I hear a loud, croaky meow in the background and smile. “Please give my best to Callie.” Callie (full name _Caligula_ , named for her “megalomaniac tendencies,” according to Harry) is her old Siamese cat, chubby, spoiled, and opinionated.

Harry laughs on the other end. “Her highness doesn’t need any more attention, but I’ll pass it along anyway. What can I do for you?”

I explain the situation to her, along with my attempts to figure it out myself.

“Oh,” she says, and I can just picture her waving off my self-repair initiatives. “You needn’t have bothered. I’m sure that thing should’ve been replaced ages ago. I’m just sorry it went out when it did! It’s miserably hot today.”

“I think that’s always the way,” I observe, and she laughs again.

“I suppose you’re right. Well, I’ll call Sal, see how soon he can get over to look at it. Unfortunately, I don’t know that it’ll be before Monday — he’s usually out by noon on Saturdays,” she says apologetically. “Can you last that long? I might have some extra box fans in the main office if you want me to check.”

“Thanks, Harry, but I think I’ll be okay. It’s only a couple of days.”

“Well, if you’re sure. I’ll let you know when Sal’s able to come out. If you change your mind about the fans, you know where to find me.”

“I do. Thanks again,” I say, ending the call.

“You probably heard the gist of that, I’m assuming?” I ask, turning back to Nate.

“I try not to eavesdrop. But yes,” he admits, “I did gather that you’re out of luck for the weekend. You’re more than welcome to stay at the warehouse, of course. I, for one, wouldn’t mind having you there,” he smiles at me.

I offer my own grin in response. “More time with you _and_ air conditioning? How could I refuse? Just let me pack some things and we can get out of this sauna?” I tuck my phone back into my pocket, glance down at my outfit. I’m wearing cutoffs verging on truly ragged, although you can barely see them under the giant, threadbare button down I’ve got on over them. Both belong to the assortment of clothing and sundry other items Tina refers to as my “college collection,” and threatens to throw out every time we do a joint closet purge (which, admittedly, usually ends in purging more of her clothes than mine).

In my defense, they’re finally perfectly worn in and soft in all the right places. And they’re excellent for days like today, when I’m cleaning or working on household repairs. Or when it’s approximately four thousand degrees outside.

(In _her_ defense, they do have a touch of _Salvation Army discard_ about them.)

“And maybe change into something not covered in whatever detritus my AC apparently contains?”

“Well…” Nate reaches out a hand, clasps it loosely around my wrist. “Before you do that, I have a suggestion for how we might spend the rest of the afternoon, as well as cool off.”

I tilt my head quizzically. “Oh?”

He smiles at me slowly and I feel another clenching pull of sensation in my stomach, although this one feels far from guilt. “You might want to close your window first, though.”

—

I feel the slow, cold glide of the ice cube across the back of my neck, its wet trail followed by the warmth of his mouth. I shiver, feeling a constellation of goosebumps erupt on my skin in response, and he smiles against my bare shoulder.

His kisses along my skin are feather-light, their progress lazy, indolent, and yet scorching hot in the wake of the melting ice cube’s chill. He grazes the tip of his nose along my shoulder blade, kissing upwards as the melt water trickles down, catching icy droplets with his tongue. I shiver again at the slight scratch of stubble scraping dully along the nubby ridges of my spine, giving a little breathless half-laugh.

“That tickles.”

“I’m sorry,” he says against my skin.

“I’m sure,” I laugh again, shuddering involuntarily under the soft attentions of his mouth.

“I can stop,” he murmurs into my neck. “Do you want me to stop?”

The ice cube in his hand is almost fully melted now, and his cool, wet fingers are trailing up my rib cage, the underside of my breast. I inhale sharply.

“Absolutely not,” I breathe, and feel his lips lengthen in another smile against my throat before descending to close the gap between his hand and mouth, kissing downward toward the cool fingers cupping my breast.

He’d been achingly slow in undressing me, almost impressively so, considering how little I’d been wearing in the first place, given the now-less-unfortunate air conditioning situation. I almost laughed, thinking that in all Tina’s attempts to convince me to donate (or trash) these clothes, all she needed to do was have one exceptionally gorgeous, frustratingly patient man twist each button loose more slowly than I would have thought possible. I feel his eyes on mine as he slides each button free, watching my face, each expression, and that singular focus, his unwavering attention in that moment, feels, strangely, surprisingly, like the most shockingly erotic experience of my life.

“Are you feeling cooler yet?” His voice is low and melodic, honeyed tones sliding over me as sure as the ice cube’s melt water.

“I’m feeling a lot of things at the moment, to tell you the truth,” I manage, my own voice low but rough-edged, the rasping notes of obvious longing a clear contrast to the smooth timbre of Nate’s.

“Good things?” I feel more than hear the question against my skin, his lips brushing the thin skin of my sternum. The remains of the ice cube are still in the hand cradling my left breast; when I feel the icy slick of his hand across my nipple, followed by the wet heat of his mouth, the swipe of his tongue, a jangly current pulses along my spine and I shiver, arching against his mouth with a noise somewhere between a gasp and the bright twang of an almost-giggle that faded before it fully left my lips.

I feel him smile against my breast, shifting to ghost a kiss on the hollow of my breastbone. “Still with me, _schatje_?” His eyes, dark and warm and _wanting_ , flick up to my face, and alongside the hunger and easy confidence, there’s a shimmer of gentle, focused concern, and I realize he’s waiting for a response to his earlier question, not just vocal foreplay, but checking to see, to _hear_ , that I’m enjoying this, too.

And, _oh_ , I am. “Yes,” I breathe. “I’m not convinced I haven’t made this all up in my mind, but I’m with you.”

I feel his laugh in my bones, the shivery vibrations on my skin. “I don’t think even _your_ imagination is quite so vivid.”

I close my eyes briefly, breathe in. “Fever dream?”

“Then I’ll have to cool you off more,” he says, “convince you this is real.” He slides the fast-melting nub of ice between his lips and closes them around my other breast, the warm flick of his tongue and combined chill of the melting ice sending a searing shiver of sensation on what I’m convinced is every nerve-ending in my body. I arch against him and he slides an arm around me, holding me pressed against his mouth. He stays there, sucking and teasing, until there is only his mouth on my skin, the ice fully melted against the combined heat of our bodies. He releases my breast and I whimper at the loss, but then he’s kissing back up along my chest, shoulder, the hollow of my throat.

“You’re still so hot here,” he breathes into my neck, dragging one hand slowly, purposefully over my underwear before sliding one long finger underneath to brush directly against my most sensitive spot and then pressing inside me. I gasp, hips lifting in response to draw his finger deeper, and feel him smile against my throat. He slides a second finger in and grazes the pad of his thumb across my clit, first featherlight and then pressing gently, circling. A sound somewhere between his name and a moan escapes me, my hips rocking against his hand. I hear him chuckle darkly at my involuntary whimper as he withdraws his hand, then his satisfied groan as he brings his fingers to his own mouth and sucks, eyes fluttering shut.

“Do you know how sweet you taste?” he whispers, sending a burning chill reminiscent of the earlier ice cubes through me.

“How I dream of tasting you when we’re apart, dreaming of the dark, decadent heat of you? Shall I tell you of the nights I’ve imagined it was your hand instead of my own, the memory of your flavor in my mind, in my mouth, sweeter than any wine, light as honeydew?”

He presses his mouth back up, against my neck, then down, lips, tongue, teeth skating down my body, hands already back at my hips, fingers hooked in the lacy waistband of my underwear and tugging.

“Tell me,” he says, and I feel the humming resonance of his voice against my hip bone, the warmth of his breath on the skin below my navel, sending another hot shiver through my bones. He slips his finger inside me again, too briefly _again,_ then brings it to my lips this time.

“Tell me you’ve never tasted anything so sublime,” and his eyes are on mine as I draw his finger into my own mouth, curl my tongue around it, his pupils blown black and locked on my face as I taste myself on his skin.

“But I have,” I say as his finger slips from my mouth, hand curving around my jaw to tug me towards him for another kiss. “I’ve tasted you.”

And then we’re crashing into each other, his mouth gently insistent against mine, the stroking rhythm of his tongue relentless and unmistakable in its suggestion yet still, somehow, impossibly tender, his hands skimming my body like the cool, fine whisper of silk. I, on the other hand, feel almost feral, nerves drawn taut like a bowstring, ready to be loosened by a skilled hand. I am grateful for the memory of ice melting in cool rivulets down my body; otherwise, I would already be seared to ashes.

And still he moves so slowly, deliberately, as if he intends to leave no inch of my skin unkissed as he wends his way down my body, a warm path that is both tortuous and torturous in its deliberate descent. He makes it as far as my navel before I’m too impatient with wanting, with the need for _more_ , for _right now_.

“Please,” I gasp, and I’m too driven to complete distraction by the heat of his breath on my skin to be annoyed with myself for how much it sounds like a whine, like blatant needy longing. To be bothered by the half-formed thought, to worry, that Nate’s already so woven into the fabric of my mind, intertwined vines of emotions-thoughts-longings that I don’t know what to do with just _there_ , looping themselves securely inside me even while I avoid acknowledging them.

I don’t know why people always talk about strong emotions and relationships as physical feelings in their hearts. All my Nate feelings seem to happen in my throat, like they’re ready to fly out of my mouth at any moment if given half the chance.

“Please what?” he asks my hipbone.

“Touch me,” and it’s a full-on plea, but I’m too gone to care. “I need to feel your mouth on me.”

He smiles against my skin and acquiesces, slowly, painstakingly, frustratingly. His lips are everywhere but where I need them most, the crease of my hip, my thighs, the inside of my knee and back up again, hands on the outside of my legs, smoothing up my shins, along my thighs, up to my hips, holding me gently in place while he presses tugging, lingering kisses on the thin, sensitive skin of my inner thighs. As he moves closer to my center, I catch a glimpse of a trail of delicate bruises already forming and I almost laugh. He must know he’s already made so many indelible marks on me, more permanent than any of the other tattoos inked on my skin.

And then his mouth is on me and I no longer feel like laughing, arching my hips against him, the slow drag of his tongue on my most sensitive skin, the tickling scratch of stubble brushing my thighs, the soft vibration of his groan when he slides two fingers inside me and feels how much ( _too much_ ) I want him.

His mouth on me is achingly soft, gentle flicks and sweeps of his tongue, the gliding caress of his fingers dipping, curling inside me, each stroke of his fingers, his tongue lingering, almost needy, like he’s savoring each trace of contact between us.

He keeps me there, letting me shimmer at the edge and bringing me down and back again until I’m reeling, writhing and arching beneath him, hands sliding through his hair, gripping his shoulders, legs quivering even as he anchors me, steadies me. I whine a sound that might be his name, and whether it’s a plea or a prayer I have no idea.

His eyes, dark and reverent, flick up to mine, stay on my face as his tongue drags slowly upward. It is there, eyes locked on each other, Nate looking at me like he’s found religion, that I go off like a bomb. His hands on my hips, sliding across to my ass, holding me in place against him, the vibration of his quiet groan reverberating up my spine, echoing in my ribs. And then he’s kissing back up my body, grinding his hips against mine, gripping my waist, dragging a hand along my nape, into my hair, his mouth on my neck.

“You,” he groans against me, “are _intoxicating_.”

He leans down to kiss my mouth, his tongue sliding past my lips in a soft facsimile of the rhythm of his hips against mine, and I can taste the vestiges of my own arousal on his mouth. If I felt almost feral before I’m past wild now, feverish and hungry and frantic to feel _more_ to let the friction of our skin against each other spark into full flame, let this feeling consume me, let the heat licking along my veins burn a home in me. I reach blindly down, hand skating down the impossible heat of his chest, the plane of his stomach, lifting my hips as I wrap my hand around his cock. I can’t say for sure which of us groaned first as I press up to slide him inside me, but I know I make a sound that sounds like worship at the first hot press of him into me, wrapping my legs around his waist to draw him deeper, pull us somehow, impossibly, into occupying the same space with no gaps.

His hands grip me like he wants the same thing, fingers splayed along my body like he’s trying to touch all of me at once, bodies slick sliding against each other. Our breaths hitch in sharp, staccato gasps against each other, my face buried in the crook of his neck, his somewhere near my ear, and I wonder if I’ll ever catch my breath again when I dissolve beneath him, the burst of white-lightning current fizzling along my body, and I gasp at the radiant thrum of it. My teeth graze his shoulder as I press my open mouth against his skin, hips a shuddering roll into his and he’s there too, clinging to each other like the only real things in the universe.

—

We’re a loose-limbed tangle on my living room rug and I’m blurry at the edges, half-convinced I can feel the individual weight of all 206 bones in my body anchoring me there on the floor, like gravity has defied physics to keep me here. Outside, the last stubborn vestiges of afternoon summer sun are losing the fight against the hazy purple dusk-light, their gold light filtering through the slats of my blinds.

“I’d say I’m sorry my air conditioner thwarted our afternoon, but that would be a big, fat lie,” I yawn around the words, nestling my face against his skin. He’s warm and soft enough that I’m seriously considering using him as a body pillow and falling asleep on my living room floor. 

Nate kisses the top of my head, the warm breath of a half-laugh rustling the downy sprigs of baby hairs at my temple. “I can assure you, I do not feel thwarted,” he says into my hair.

“Good,” I mumble, letting a slow blink fade into a drowsy demi-slumber.

“Here,” he murmurs, shifting to pull me into his arms and moving to rise. I make a noise of protest, but it’s admittedly feeble, and I don’t resist as he lifts me and moves the few feet to lower me gently to the couch. Turning, he unfurls a blanket from the basket of them under the coffee table, draping it over me. When he leans down to kiss me, I pull against him as though to drag him onto the couch with me and he chuckles against my mouth.

“Why don’t you take a nap? Are you hungry? Let me make you dinner.” He gently disentangles himself from me, already reaching to tug on his boxers and jeans and moving towards my kitchen.

I drop my cheek against the couch cushion and watch him sideways, one eye shut and the other eager to follow suit.

“I don’t think I have anything but takeout menus and a very wishful grocery list,” I call out as he moves away from me, pulling one of his several layers of shirts over his head as he goes.

“I haven’t had time to shop this week. Work is…well, you know.” I’m not always especially busy (although those errant, flower-crushing, off-leash Chow Chows won’t wrangle themselves), but my caseload the past few weeks has been absurd, thanks largely to the mayor’s harebrained notion that a blood drive needs to have some sort of seventy-six-trombone processional accompanying it.

“So I’ll go to the store then.” I start to rise from the couch, but he’s already shrugging on his jacket, striding back toward me to gently press me back against the couch cushions.

“You’re obviously sleepy. You should rest. Let me do this for you.”

He leans down and presses his lips softly against mine, silencing my half-formed protest that he doesn’t need to do my grocery shopping and he certainly doesn’t need to cook me dinner.

“Sleep,” he says again, brushing his thumb along my jawline. “I’ll be back before you wake up.”


End file.
